Solitary
by wispy-whims
Summary: When you stop waiting for something that is eventually nothing, because patience is no longer a virtue. For the longing and the lingering.


Silent songs of crusty owls travel across the greying country. He distinctly hears the melody, watching the sun-kissed glow of dusk disperse to nightfall from the seclusion of his darkening habitat. A 'V' formation of the parliament soars in free flight from an unknown dwelling to another dimension, going left as he sees. Home, he presumes. Somewhere they can belong, to clan of closeness, one with familiarity and comfort.

He sits lifelessly, staring into the far distance of the visible opening. Patter of footsteps creak around him. Wretched house-elf, cursing in his head. A bubble of wonder irks him, with an evident distaste. The flicker of butter sheets sway, so he turns his head to the article. July 15th , it mocks. Scratching his ghostly locks, he's lost. Lengthy days until he goes back to desolate prison. September 1st. Another year of constant ridicule and scorn. Additional time for discrimination and evident tension. Extra minutes for wicked segregation. More time for tiring power. Exhaling, he tries to forget.

He can't.

Thundering knocking startles him, as he glares towards the chilling door. A grand woman walks in, somewhat indistinguishable yet recognizable. Grunting, he ignores and turns to watch the tedious view of his window. He hears the booming of her clad heels. Intense aroma of parental auras, untruthful concern and lavender fills the room.

He wishes he was at the jail.

Draco, she rolls his name off her tongue like artful poison. Sensing the revulsion, he diverts his eyes to the now murky blacks. Trying to make an impression that he is focusing on something else other than her, other than his troubles. Fingers entrance his back, giving a deceptive trace of care.

He knows better.

You've been staring at the window for days, she starts to complain, sliding a protective arm around him. He averts, looking at the fraying blocks of his bedroom. Fire fissures fractures his wall. He makes a mental note to fix that later. Shaking the arms off, he stands up abruptly and observes the woman silently. Words threaten to build up, yet ceases. So much to say, yet it was also nothing.

Something you'd like to say, she teases, grasping his face in a sinful stillness.

Yes, he contemplates. He likes to know why he's still alone, and why nobody wants to talk to him. He wants to understand why his father hasn't been home for weeks. He wants to know why she's been sneaking around. So much, yet so little.

She notices his blues, and examines her son's face. See the hidden isolation in his dreary pupils. The wasted skin, almost sinking. A permanent scowl, normal but dropping further through each day. No colour, just a grey boy. Not even the usual ambitious emerald or icy snow reflected in his person. Just plain loneliness.

Mature, she guesses at first sight, but at a second glance; broken.

You assume too much, he scoffs, pulling her filthy palms away from him. They blandly stare, just too much hidden tension, silent screams and destined malevolence to handle. She feels his cold exhale, worried.

Burning candlelight, the wax flickers the flame back and forth. It radiates in his room, and she notices it's vacant in spirit. No wooden cherished broomsticks, his legendary chiseled chess set, or any sentimental artifacts in his room. Empty, just the compulsory necessities there. Bed, bookshelf, table, chair. Nothing else.

Watching him, he fidgets with his fingers. He's been stolen. Her son has been taken, flawed with the twists of fear and corruption with a strong delusion. An unlikely Malfoy trait (in appearance), but too commonly experienced. He creeps out of his room, despite his mother finally noticing.

Stalking the stairwells, he wishes to run out of a house which is not a home. Yet, tall shady columns of restriction make him stay. He even wishes to be back at the detested school, just so he can escape the dim dynasty.

Kicking the salty grass, he lies on the ground and watches the evening behind an obscure shrub, where nobody would notice his location. Here, he sees the stars, a tanned hope for him. He also hears the cooing of the nocturnal birds. Understanding, he lets himself be immersed with their peaceful lullaby. The owls traveled home, he supposes. Yet, he hears them clearly echoing above him. The shrill yells of concern also burst around him, but he overlooks that and just watches the sky he has shared since birth, and listens to the animals he hears squawking countless of times in Hogwarts.

He feels the earth squeezing in. An itch develops in his shin, but ignores that too. Reminiscing of his childhood, he recalls certain figures to his mind.

Potter, he almost spits. An unclear reason on why he dislikes him. Perhaps it was the plain rejection at first, where he was turned away from somebody as legendary. The Boy Who Lived discards a wealthy yet retracted name-dropper.

Weasley, poor and petty. Gullible, yet easily likable. How he envies how easygoing he was.

Granger, a pain. Yet, just something was obviously there. He didn't know what. Maybe it was just the snake being septic to the lion, which brought out the pluck of bravery in her. He decides not to figure it out, and leave it.

His mother was never there. Neither was his father. They showered him with great, misleading presents to show affection. Not true care.

His school chums. Those who followed him out of mindless command. Never real friends. Just schoolmates who share the same interests in immoral tormenting of those who were lower class. Nothing ever changed after the years. Only more harassment.

He also remembers a certain owl friend he used to have. He was ultimately nameless, but he remembers how he used to play alongside him with his past hobby of Quidditch. It only struck him that he might have died of old age, or an accident. He never saw him anymore as the years went by. Maybe he was the only real companion he had.

The lifeless breath of the misty night only compelled his isolation even further. Surroundings with the land, the house and the sky, but no true place of acceptance. He was beneath the world, and of the lonesome ones. A true home, he marvels at the mysterious concept he's never heard of.

Sighing, he'll never know.


End file.
